


Too Much

by contronym



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clubbing, F/F, cocktails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 19:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5016661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contronym/pseuds/contronym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night gets away from them, or they get away with the night.  </p><p>Either way, it’s all both too much and not enough for Asami Sato.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> In case any one is interested, I do refer to a song playing in the background in this story, and the song I had in mind while writing this was "I'm Burning Inside" by Fuckpony.

Sometimes it’s easier to alter your consciousness than to grasp your own reality.

You find this especially (and devastatingly) true whenever going out to dance clubs with Korra, particularly when it is _just_ you, with _just_ Korra.

Scratch that - you can’t say _just_ Korra.  Because there isn’t _really_ such a thing as _just_ Korra now, is there.

Super-athlete Korra.  Super-principled Korra.  Super-woman Korra. 

Your super- _best-friend_ -but-also-super- _four-year-long_ - _crush_ , Korra.

 

You push the thought away as best you can by finishing off yet another drink, ice barraging your lips before someone sweeps the glass from your hands.

“Hey.”  You hear a hush near your ear.  Though you don’t move, your head spins.  The cocktails are really getting to you now – you are overcome with a sense of submersion, your head feeling as though it is floating in an illuminated pool, drowning simultaneously between darkness and blinding lights, surrounded by pressure in a sea of vibrating bodies.

Once you parse out the club haze from reality, you realize she is dancing behind you, her muscular back hardly separated from your own.  Your body temperature rises abruptly at the proximity.  You crane your jaw back towards her to silently inquire, _yes, Korra?_

“You like this guy?”  You blink your eyes at the question, dropping your chin forward to face your current dance partner.  He has a hold on your hips, and is actively increasing the pressure of his grip through his fingertips, pulling you closer with each musical measure.  He is very handsome – tall in stature, chiseled features, defined torso, and a smile that could stop highway traffic.  You avoid eye contact, but you have a feeling that his hazel gaze is staring directly at you.

Korra sidesteps and shuffles in reverse, setting your empty glass on a nearby table before aligning her shoulder directly beside your own, awaiting your response.

“Why do you ask?” you inquire, throwing the question to your side casually, ensuring she is the only one that can hear you over the music.

“Just trying to find out if he is bothering you,” she reports under her breath, protectively.  She keeps looking to you through her periphery, her hands in front of her as she dances to the music.

 

You do not think it is any secret – you love to watch Korra dance.  You have ever since you met initially, just two doe-eyed freshmen in college.  Sure, you may have only crossed paths chasing the same classmate – Mako, a young criminal justice major with a refined jaw, strong shoulders, and a questionable moral compass when navigating around commitments.

But you learned long ago not to judge a person for sinning differently than you do, as you would endure one hundred rough starts if it meant you could observe Korra dancing – her tribal roots and rhythmic athleticism creating this hypnotizing visual, strobe lights kissing dark skin and bright tattoos, a knee-length, sleeveless dress bending around her rippling physique.

 

It’s all too much, really.  She’s _always_ been too much.  You can’t help yourself.

“If I say no…what are you going to do about it?” 

 

You wonder when you let tequila sunrises start carrying conversations for you.  Maybe it was when you saw her forearm bulge reflexively as she noticed his hand grip more of your dress.  Or perhaps it is all wishful, inebriated thinking.

You expect the question to be too forward as you prepare to backtrack, apologize even, but Korra replies immediately.

“ _Tell me_ that you aren’t interested in him,” Korra practically growls through closed teeth, "and I’ll _show you_." 

You take a moment to swallow.  Her unfiltered aggression is such a surprise, voice so gravely and unpolished and _sexy,_ you almost lose your composure right then and there.

But you know Korra too well.  You recognize _that_ tone – the proposal laced with boldness and synonymous with daring.

And you aren’t known for backing down from a challenge.

“Fine.” You look Korra straight in the eye and conclude amusedly, “I am not interested in him.”

She replies calmly, “Good.”  Resolute.  Your heart rate thrums in anticipation before she vanishes from your sight all together.

You hear the DJ fade into a new track, a slower, beat-driven synth pulse reverberating off the walls of the venue.  Before the first verse begins, you notice your dance partner’s eyes widen, looking just beyond your face.  The next sensation is a hand – hot, firm, convinced – landing at the bottom of your rib cage, pulling you gently. 

You don’t even have to turn around to know.  You recognize the grip immediately – the same that pulled you out of the trajectory of a wayward car while your sophomore eyes were locked in an engineering text book, and the same to tug you to the side after a soccer match to issue a private, (seemingly) platonic thank-you for your attendance – and so you relent into it instantly.  You shuffle backwards until your momentum stops, a firm chest and core preventing you from moving any further.  A strong thigh bends beneath your own, forcing you to match her rhythm, hips swaying side to side dangerously.

You look to your previous dance partner apologetically, dropping your arms from his neck.  He notices you are flushing, and spares one last knowing glance before nodding his head graciously and stepping off the dance floor.  With your arms free, you stretch around behind you and splay your hands against the small of Korra’s back, adding pressure to the tectonic fissure that is your body against hers.

She releases an appreciative hum before reaching for your hands herself, lacing her fingers within your own, and bringing your palms back to your hips without releasing her grasp.  You feel her bangs brush against your ear delicately, her chin landing against the angle of your neck.

 

It’s not like Korra hasn’t been your substitute girlfriend before, and vice versa.  Each club outing, neither of you knows who will wind up the damsel, but you always know the other will be the hero.  Powerful arms swooping around your waist, or palms running along her toned stomach at the perfect moment, stealing _just_ enough thunder to make it about _just_ Korra (and you), again.

But tonight feels different.  The thunder isn’t just poached – this time, it’s been collected whole and redirected entirely, a beautifully deafening announcement of an approaching storm that no one is prepared to face, but that everyone has been dying to live through.

What exactly is one supposed to do when the squall and the shelter are the same thing?

 

“So,” Korra starts, voice low, travelling beneath the club commotion, directly to you.  “Who _are_ you interested in.”  It doesn’t come out as a question.  It is more of a request, a command to reply, her hot breath reaching for your skin like a hungry claw. 

You are nervous.  _God,_ you’re so nervous.  But it’s Korra – with her, obliging is what you do best.

“Only two people.  Both are here.”

“Two?  Here?”  She whispers, curiously surprised.  “Hate to break it to you.  But I’m pretty sure I ruined your prospects with at least one of them.”

You smile teasingly.  “You think so lowly of my seductress skills.”

“No.”  You feel Korra’s teeth graze your neck just slightly, causing the hair on your arms to stand on end.  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

Korra’s lips meet your pulse point and she adds just enough pressure which, when combined with your irregular breathing, causes you to shudder and moan audibly.  You think maybe it is negligible, buried beneath the club pulse, but you feel her smile against your wet skin, prompting you to answer, “One of them is me.”

Korra tugs on your earlobe with her teeth, as if trying to pry out an elaboration.

“I have a vested interest in myself, my happiness.”  You untwine one of your hands and bend it above your shoulder, resting it against Korra’s cheek.  “I am…very happy right now.”

“One of the many benefits of a tequila sunrise,” Korra retorts lightly, but the way she squeezes your hip and your hand does not go unnoticed.  Nor the fact that she doesn’t release the pressure for several minutes.

“And you?” You ask, sincere yet hesitant, curious to know the impact of revealing what is surely your longest (but certainly not best) kept secret.  “Who are you pursuing?”

“I’d have to say there are two people as well.”  A thoughtful pause.  “Though only one of them is here.”

Your chest pangs just slightly – you know she isn’t obligated to you in this way.  And your friendship is so resilient.  You could tell her anything, and she wouldn’t love you or care about you any less. 

But you have just rendered yourself so vulnerable, and it stings to know that Korra’s attention could be shared with anyone else.  She seems to notice how your shoulders tense, and so brushes the back of your hand soothingly and continues.

“One is my best friend, whom I have cherished for years, and…loved, for just as long,” you can hear the caution in her voice, the slight waver at the use of the word. “Dancing here with me, in this incredible dress, looking snazzy as usual.”

Your stomach flips like you’ve just derailed after the drop of a roller coaster, and you aren’t sure what to do to make your momentum stop.  Or if you want to make it stop at all.

“The other is my best friend, whom I have cherished for years, and loved for just as long,” she repeats more confidently, before finishing huskily, “dancing with me, _out_ of that incredible dress, looking better than I could ever imagine.”

Attempting to suppress the hot surprise flooding your voice and cheeks, you manage to suggest, "You don’t want them both here, right now?" You scrape your nails against her thigh, feeling Korra's chest release a hostage breath you weren't aware she was holding captive.  
  
"Asami...." Korra groans into your neck, pulling you as close as possible.  "I just admitted that I love you. Don't trump my victory one-liner.”  
  
The warmth of the admission, mixed with the heat from the last half hour of direct contact, proves too much to bear.  You peel yourself from the front of Korra, your body practically whining at the loss of proximity.  You turn to face her, Korra's hands never abandoning your hips.  "Maybe we should do something that requires less talking for both of us."  
  
"I was hoping you would say that,” Korra replies with a click of her tongue.  “You know I am always game for some post-clubbing noodles at Narook’s." 

You look to Korra's eyes, noting the taunting gleam, but her smile donning the most loving and affectionate form you've ever seen it take.  "So, what do you say?  Are you asking me out to dinner, Miss Sato?"  
  
Your palms wrap around her cheeks, fingers feeling the heat of her flush, thumbs tracing her asymmetrical dimple. 

"Something like that,” you mutter before pulling her face forward, your lips colliding against hers with absolutely no reserve.  You feel her arms wrap around your shoulders, one hand sliding underneath your long tresses and pulling the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging your lips even harsher into her own. 

You feel submerged again – but there’s no longer any darkness or shining blindness.  Instead, it’s as though light itself has taken your hand in its own, pulling you through the maelstrom, and you’re running on top of currents, cutting across the entire ocean.  As you extract yourself from the kiss and inhale, you recognize that you’re no longer drowning.  You can breathe like this - underwater, dancing on rapids, beneath Korra’s gaze – for forever.

 

It’s all too much, really.  She’s _always_ been too much.  But you just can’t help yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to practice with sub-2,000 word fiction that I write in one sitting without proofing. I'm still establishing a "writing" style (still not comfortable referring to myself as a writer), so I appreciate if you read this or anything I post, seeing as you are bearing with me while I learn what I want my voice to sound like.
> 
> Though I'm pretty sure I want it to sound like Amy Winehouse's, but that is neither here nor there.


End file.
